Fromage Sabotage

It was not my intention when knowing I would be spending four days in the South of France to make it part of my trip that I attempt to eat all of the food, but it appears things have gone that way. Lunch in a fish restaurant with Glenn, Carol and Noel, meant that while they hunkered down on small sea based lifeforms, me as the single, oft frowned upon by the Gaelic, vegetarian had the option of spaghetti with vegetables or.....no wait, that was it. So with such a range of choice I went for the pasta dish, not realising it would be presented to me in the pan it was made in, a pan so large I could have worn it as body armour, and filled to the brim with grub. They do not skimp on the serving sizes here and Noel's pot of mussels reminded us all of the children's story about the bowl of porridge that always refills itself. We had fears Noel would still be there in years to come tucking away at the same dish being forced to stay by our waiter until he was done. We sat outside in the Old Town square as if to pretend the tiny amount of sunshine that's around today is in anyway warming, and we were regularly serenaded by the sounds of a pneumatic drill nearby, a large truck, several motorbikes and a man with a hose who kept waving the jet stream of cold water dangerously close to us. With the serene surroundings I managed to make it through two thirds of my grub and now, consequently, am already reconsidering my earlier plans of heading to Antibes early by train, and instead just getting back into bed and letting things digest.

Its the second time I've made such a mistake in two days. Yesterday I ordered a baked camembert and was handed what was nothing less than an entire wheel of cheese. Its the sort of meal that anywhere else in the world would be considered gluttonous. If I, upon my return to the UK, melt a whole cheddar cheese and eat it with a spoon, there would be several looks of dismay as I shoveled lactose based fat into my gob. Not that I'd be stupid enough to eat it in a public place of course, but that's not the point. All I'm saying is that in France they can stick several cloves of garlic in it and some rosemary and suddenly its a culinary delight. Don't get me wrong, I very much enjoyed it but its after effect on my mental and physical state was devastating. I'm not sure how much cheese one man should consume in one day but I'm fairly sure I was close to reaching levels where someone at the pentagon would have to raise Defcon 5 for. There was much discussion between Glenn and Carol as to how dangerous any burps I may expel would be, as well as what colours and whether or not it would have all the Beatles singing 'Yellow Submarine' in it as it left me. I harbored fears that I would be handing the microphone over to Noel or Glenn during the show and they would be instantly poisoned by my breathy residue and I'd be responsible for their deaths on the Med.

I wandered around Nice post meal in a heady over cheesed state feeling drunk on fromage and took pictures of nothing of any tourist value but instead purely odd things. I present to you the weird things too much cheese made me find funny:



ItS A MaN WiTh A BiRd On HiS HeAd Up A pOlE!



BeWaRe ThE oPeRA pLAgE! OPERa Is SpREAdinG EvEryWhEre!



BIG BLUE HEAD!



HoW MuCH CaFE CaN YoU TaKe?



Just because they are gassy doesn't mean they should be named and shamed.

Then before the gig in Cannes we were fed pizza, which had, yes, more cheese on it. I was starting to worry that I'd begin pissing cheese strings. That in the middle of my gig my arteries would just wave a small white flag and I'd ruin the night by actually dying on stage. I shouldn't have worried because that probably would have got a better response than anything I had done in front of the biggest crowd of stuck up arseholes I've ever performed to. The basic description of a Cannes resident is someone who absorbs all of the Daily Mail through their veins, complaining about immigrants while they themselves sit on their yachts on the shores of a country they are invading with their wealthy money grabbing paws. With a few exceptions they were a judgmental and overly tough crowd that we fought our way through, myself and Noel just putting our heads down, and getting off stage as quickly as possible. Glenn however had a heckler and in the most legendary way, took this ignorant heckle from an upper class American girl who called him ignorant, to spew forth his awesome material on the evil bankers and how rich fucks have ruined the world. They hated it. But we all sat in our 'backstage area' (it was right by the main stage, only with a thin curtain over it) and applauded. I was envious of his ability to just tell them how it is. When he finally left the stage we all hid until every last one of them had gone and we escaped in the car all the way back to Nice. If it wasn't for the giant muriel of Gary Coleman, drawn as a mistake when someone asked for a painting of Gary Oldman, then Cannes would have nothing to ever make me want to return. The Coleman pic is amazing though and fueled many discussions about the possibilities of Gary Oldman playing Gary Coleman in a biopic of his life. Think about it. Go on.

Tonight should be different. Apparently the gig in Antibes is meant to be great and I really am going to aim to get there early. I haven't been to Antibes since 2001 when I travelled there with my friends Luke and Paul when we backpacked around Europe. We were booted out of our youth hostel almost instantly on arrival as someone had been accused of stealing and so all we made to leave for lack of finding a culprit. With no other hostel nearby and no planned train journeys till the next day, we sat in a cafe and grumbled about possibly having to sleep on the beach. Hopefully they'll remember me. Now all I need is for this pasta to just die down a bit, and then we'll get moving. Maybe I'll lie down to help it. In bed. Just for a while......zzzzzzz

Monégasques and Yachties

I have somehow managed to time my day to be perfectly ready to go outside and peruse the streets of Nice, with the exact time everything in Nice closes down for two hours to enjoy it's lunch in peace. Essentially the French life doesn't suit that of a UK comedian very well. I'm dreading the inevitable possibility of waking up very hungover at midday over the next few days in need of some coffee and croissant based remedy only to have to wait until 2pm whilst dining Niciens (I'm not sure that's the correct term, but its either that or Niceities and I'm banking on the former) watch me panic with alco-sweats. Sure there are restaurants open but I have just managed to persuade the nice lady downstairs to let me have 'petit déjeuner' an hour after it finishes due to me forgetting to put my English watch an hour forward. She lived in London for 2 years and I combined polite banter about such things and lots of smiling to gain a pan au chocolat and a huge mug of java. Win. She spent a while telling me how great English breakfasts are and I didn't have the heart to tell that a) yes they are, and this petty du-janeer was nothing in comparison and b) its also why the French have a higher life expectancy than the British.

I have as yet, just been speaking English at people very slowly and patronisingly like a horribly stereotypical Englishman. This is because my French knowledge is nothing less than hugely shit and also because most of the people here will just speak English back at me at a far higher level than I. The rest, like the cleaning lady who I've conversed with several times already today, use a combination of mime and loud noises to get by. For example borrowing an iron involved lots of ironing type motions, one adventurous 'ouch' noise and a point by the cleaning lady to signify the heat, and then sufficient pointing to show I should go downstairs. She was surprisingly animate for a small elderly lady in a pinny. I suspect this is why the French are renowned for its mummers. That's a clever word for mime artist by the way, I'm not saying they have speech difficulties. Although if they did, they'd still be able to act their way out of it.

The first gig here in the Riveria was much fun last night. I'd never been to Monte Carlo before and the journey there was enough to make me assume I'd be performing to many a Bond villain sitting in a swivel chair stroking a cat. The combination of windy tunnels under the cliffside, the mansions up high and the plaque commemorating the place where Grace Kelly died (well not exactly where. Its on the bit where the car drove off. I imagine it'd be a tad insensitive to put the plaque on the rocks she smashed into) made me realise I was entering an area hand built for the elite of society. I was, as a result, dreading the gig. I feared having booze incase I berated them all for tax dodging, got violent and would be forcibly removed. I thought they'd sniff out my debt in seconds and there would be all sorts of trouble. Amazingly it wasn't. There were very few Monégasques there - that is the term for locals and yes it sounds like a stomach trouble doesn't it? Or some sort of Morlock type hideous beast - and instead it was mostly Yachties. These peoples that also have an odd moniker assuming they might be some overly colourful kids TV show, are all the people that work on the yachts stuck in the Monte Carlo dock during Winter at their rich owners will. A fun bunch of deckhands (that is going to be my new insult for everyone over the next few days), stewards and stewardesses they provided a lot of fun banter and were very willing to go along with my childish notions that a 'super yacht' can fly and do cool things. They lead an odd life being trapped in their cabins for most of the year as they sail round the world and as one put it, they are very much glorified servants. Apparently this is who we'll be gigging to most of the time and I have to say I'm pleased as they seem pretty ace. I'm not sure I could be a yachtie. Firstly I'd no way handle a hangover on a boat and would give the deckhand a lot more work to do as soon as sickly me stepped on board and yakked on the port. Also, I think that while parts of the incestous nature described sounded fun, I think boredom with the boat's interior walls would give me cabin fever sooner than anyone else and I'd quickly be calling myself 'Short Legged Douieb', making insolent collegues walk the plank and trying to board small fishing boats using a toilet brush for a sword.

Tonight we have what's known as 'the difficult gig' in Cannes. That's the place. Its not difficult because we are incased in tin or forced to wear large radio headphones. Arf. That's not what I'll be starting with or it'll be even tougher. Instead I shall relay them with tales of the evil Monégasques and good natured Yachties that Gulliver met on his travels and they will stare at me like I'm a bellend. I'm not sure what bellend is in French. I'm sure they'll tell me pretty quickly.

Nice to see you, to see you Nice

Just a brief blog today as I've just arrived at my hotel in Nice, which is er, well, hmm, need another word...well, ok-ish. Despite all my hopes of gaining a small amount of winter sun during my 4 days of gigging here, it appears the weather was very much expecting me and has ploughed on more grey than a film noir about ex-Tory MPs. It's still warmer than Britain and they have palm trees which always gives me the illusion that its sunnier than it is. I'm not sure how this works but I partly blame years of exposure to Lilt and Capri-Sun adverts for such matters. Anyway, I have 7 minutes before we have to leave to do the first gig to people in Monaco. I'm not sure how this will work as all the while I'll be trying to host, while in the back of my mind I'll be wanting to tell them they are tax dodging criminals. I might try doing that with a smile and see how it goes. I also fully pledge that if I meet Mrs Phillip Green I'm going to ask her for a cheque to take back with me and hand over the to tax office. FACT.

Couple of other quick notes:

- Easyjet are now catering for their feline passengers which is lovely:



- Myself, Glenn Wool and Lady Carol all witness a women fall backwards on the escalator in Stanstead today. She lay flat like a starfish as it carried her upwards and her elderly partner tried to hold her up. We all at first wanted to help, but we were on the other side so couldn't hit the emergency button and instead we watched her gently get levered up in a Moonwalker style motion while heading to the top. It then became hysterically funny. Can more people do this please? Thanks.

That's all. I wanted to tell you about Tony Law's excellent car starting skills but there simply isn't time, so instead I will just say that you should go see his show Mr Tony's Brainaporium at the Hen and Chickens from 13th Dec - 17th. Hurry up.

More tomorrow!

Cat-astrophe pt 2

The North is totally doing the snow properly. When I return to the South later this eve, I shall endeavour to tell anyone who's not managing the pitiful snow down there just what a pathetic being they are. It will be about 2am, and there won't really be anyone around at that time on a Sunday morning who is not going to work because of the snow or not running a train because of icy tracks. But still, I will do it. Its properly lovely thick snow here and driving around yesterday and today it felt as though at any moment a giant may pick the whole place up and shake it like a giant pretty snowglobe. Of course, hundreds of thousands of people would die and buildings would be destroyed but it's the thought that counts. I should also interrupt this odd thought here by mentioning that I put a similar thought late last night on Twitter and I misspelt snowglobe as 'snowgolbe', whereby my iPhone4 decided the autocorrect option for this is 'abortion'. Lovely festive Apple. It has strange moments does the iPhone4 autocorrect. The other day it decided my spelling error was obviously me wanting to type about Descartes. I wasn't and I didn't. In fact I then had to look him up to remember what he was famous for. Essentially my iPhone4 gave me a spur of the moment education. I worry that its sudden interruptions like 'abortion' are its way of trying to tell me something. First learn about Dualism, then get rid of an unborn child. Hmm. No, doesn't seem to relate to anything yet.

The main bulk of what I wanted to write about today was a follow-up to all and any who read this blog about a month ago:

Cat-astrophe

Since I no longer have cats of my own, other felines have decided that they will abuse my supposed knowledge of how to look after them by treating me like a complete prat. Last night I stayed in my friend Micky's house in Halifax. She wasn't there which I always find a slightly weird situation. I tend to get stupidly worried that I will break or set fire to something, and don't tend to touch anything as I haven't asked if I can, terrified that as I close the front door on the way out the whole place will collapse. Micky has a lovely place and inside this lovely place are two of the most brilliant cats I've ever met. Mark (who is a girl) and Ross (who is a boy) as much as frog marched me to their food bowl as soon as I entered through the front door. I had managed to drive up a particularly slippy road and park in what can only be described as a snow pit, gather my things, wade through further snow chaos and stumble in through the front door trying to remember the alarm code I'd been texted. As soon as it was off they both mieowed in unison and proceeded to show me just how empty their grub stop was. As I look at the empty bowls, Ross casually waltzed over to the cupboard where the food is kept and stretched himself across the door doing what I can only refer to as an 'anti-mieow'. Somehow, rather than emit the usual high pitched tones that cats do, he manages to have some sort of low guttural groan I could only imagine a zombie feline might have something similar too. Its both hilarious, and yet aggressive and demanding as if to say 'if you don't feed me, I will piss on all of your things'. He had already urinated in the corridor and shat on the bathroom floor, so wanting my stay to be as easy as possible I obeyed and topped them up with cat nibbles.

Our relationship over the next 16 or so hours was a tumultuous one. The knew I wasn't Micky, and whilst Mark seemed to be very warm and cuddly, Ross would spend his time just staring at me in a way that made me feel oddly uncomfortable like he was trying to make my head explode. It came to a head when at 4.30am this morning I was having some rather strange dreams about zombie cats scratching people's brains out and awoke to see Ross right in my face doing his anti-mieow. I stared back at him for some time trying to figure out what was up. Stroking didn't work. Telling him to go away also didn't work. Turning over just made him run around the bed and non-mieow at my face from the other side of the room. Eventually I got up and he once again lead me to an empty food bowl, which like a complete sucker I filled up, causing the noise to stop and I managed to get back to sleep without harassment. I thought that now they knew they could treat me like their bitch, maybe they'd leave me alone until feeding the next day. No. I was wrong. This morning I presented with a huge cat turd in the middle of the kitchen as some sort of cat 'dirty protest'. Everyone else in the UK is complaining about the cuts. Mark and Ross are complaining cats. Its nearly the same. Except not at all the same.

Today they have given me various looks of dissent, especially when I even remotely suggested the notion of them going outside for a bit. Ross and Mark ran to the door, looked at the snow and immediately ran up to the bathroom and sat by the radiator, staring at me as though I was trying to freeze them to death. I fear that Micky has been away from the house for too long and they have realised that its now their house. I fully expect her to return tomorrow and discover a fridge full of gourmet dead mice and full fat milk, the television replaced with a giant scratching pole and the loo filled with cat litter. I'm now in Leeds, relatively unscathed by the whole process. Or so I thought. Just as I went to drink my coffee as I sit here in Starbucks, a small cat hair floated off my jumper and into my mug as a final warning. Damn you Mark and Ross. Damn you both.


Final note for today: Just to say once again amazing work to all those who shut down Topshop, Vodafone, Boots and other shops around the country in protest of tax dodging big wigs who stash all their cash offshore. Wish I'd been there though I feel that just opening a door in this weather here would have been seen as a violent protest. Truly impressed with all of those taking direct action right now. Offshore taxes is such a critical element that the government are 'seemingly' overlooking. I say 'seemingly' as its obvious its because its their rich friends' dosh and they wouldn't think twice about taking money off people that have no need for it, whilst everyone else loses their jobs and homes. I can't imagine closing Topshop temporarily will remotely harm Phillip Green's expenses, yet him giving back the £124 million he avoids giving back to the UK thanks to his wife's residency in Monaco, would alleviate a chunk of money that's being cut from elsewhere.

I was trying to think of some humorous bits here and have been trying to think of tweets about it all day but frankly it just makes me angry that people can be so greedy. If nothing is done to reclaim that money I'll set Mark and Ross on them. FACT.

S'No(w) Fun

I haven't got to enjoy this snow once yet, which I'm fairly gutted about. Not a single snow dude built. Snow dude rather than snow man, because all the ones I build are total dudes. Or more often, deformed weirdos that due to their abnormally large heads and unfeasible small torsos tend to become decapitated by a single gust of breeze. So as not to make them feel bad I refer to them as dudes rather than 'freaky icy headless horrors'. Not a single snowball thrown, although admittedly had I tried I probably would have left most of it in my hand creating temporary frost bite while an unintended victim gained a teaspoon of snow dust in their face. Apart from a brief drive over Alexandra Palace yesterday afternoon, I haven't even oooh'd at frost covered London in its gleaming snowy wonder. No, instead I've skidded my car about 6 times, nearly slid all the way down the hill I now live on whilst carrying heavy things into our flat and yesterday forgot my scarf causing my neck to go solid cold and forcing me to look everyone direct in the eye until I defrosted. In but an hour or so I have to drive all the way to Leeds which is, according to the weather reports, far far more snowy than London. Luckily I am taking Tony Law with me so if we get stuck in a snow drift for hours then I suppose I could eat him to survive. Not that I'd want to, as he's both a lovely chap and a top comic, but never let it be said that I don't think about survival seriously.

Its amazing how unfun snow can be when you have to actually do stuff. I'd very much like it if everytime it snowed the government just said they'd pay everyone to stay at home. Not that this government would ever do that, especially with this deficit. I think they'd rather people risked their lives in the hope that with a few more dead they can garner all their inheritance tax off their loved ones and stick it back into the banks. Grrr, even imagining the Coalition talking about snow makes me hate them. Of course, were it a different time and place, people wouldn't be able to just take days off anyway and then there'd be people like the grit lorry drivers who'd have to work and resent everyone else. Although I presume they don't work any other time of year? I mean, I've never heard a call for grit during Spring, Summer or Autumn? Is there any other use for it? Some people use for their teeth. Some people with sharp accents use it to say things are great. I think that's it. I mean, not that I know a lot about grit. I can never figure out how we run out of it as a country. Surely its just everywhere? Surely its just dirt isn't it?

Someone the other day told me that its not just dirt and that they had once tried using cat litter as grit to clear up the ice. Apparently it just stayed on top of the ice and made it even worse as it was now litter covered ice causing even less grip. I also scolded them for littering. Arf. Sorry. Anyway, I just hope this snow keeps up for another few weeks. Sure it'll cause chaos everywhere, but I'm away from Sunday and I'd like to come back on Friday and get to build at least one snow dude. If it looks like its going to stop, could you all please keep a little bit in your freezer for me? I presume that with all 6 people that read this blog, if you all did it, I could make a tiny one. Thanks thanks.

Emergency Drawer

This blog is being typed to the new brilliant Tron Legacy soundtrack. What that means is that whilst you may not have noticed it otherwise, it will have a sense of epic drama and sci-fi futuristicness that lingers in the background regardless of how dull the content may be. I have nothing exciting to blog about today so I suggest you read all of this assuming it took place on 'The Grid' and that it goes without saying that all events mentioned involved me wearing a slightly 80's lego style helmet on my head at all times.

Day 4 of the TiernaNaTom house (I have decided to call it this as of now. I haven't told the others and I suspect they will never know until it get a small plaque for the front door saying such things) and so far the ship is running smoothly. As smoothly as a ship that's actually a house can run. I mean, in the water, it wouldn't run at all. It'd sink, as it its a house. So perhaps I really should have used another expression. Through trial and error we've learnt that despite mottled glass you do need to pull the blinds down in the bathroom, as learnt by my friend Mat witness more of Tom than he should on he was into the house (my bad. I said mottled glass was totally fine); that apparently we just have a 'wasp' friendly house (long story but ultimately I expect next summer we'll all be walking round in beekeeper suits); that I am more likely to get killed falling off a cliff on my horse than from zombies and that the Mysterious Cities of Gold can provide untold amounts of enjoyment in the early hours of the morning. This final fact arose last night when we decided to tuck into my box set of said series in the wee hours of the morning. I hadn't seen it since a kid in the 80's and its amazing how different it seems in today's day and age. For a start the over explanatory dialogue is tiresome, the speed at which the characters talk is difficult to hear and there is little more distracting than a monk who has a different colour of skin on his face to the top of his head. Saying that, the theme tune is still enough to keep me happy and two episodes in, we are all excited to see just what happens now that Estaban has left 'Barcelona, Spain, in the rain' (that is a quote from the show. I know. I know.)

More importantly than anything else, the T Boudoir is now finished. I'm covered in bruises and muscles I didn't think I had ached, but I have been all well manly and stuff and built, drilled, screwed and other things that sound like euphemisms but sadly aren't. Ok, so built doesn't sound like it means something filthy. Or does it? You! You are terrible. Eugh. Most DIY stuff does sound wrong. Plastering. Cementing. Stacking. Sanding. The last one I suppose works if you really wear someone down. I suppose less of a euphemism for sex and more for consistent persistency for some sort of attention. Essentially sexual harassment. All I'm saying is that it might seem all tough but essentially anyone who does DIY is a dangerous pervert. I put up CD racks, made two sets of drawers and as a final piece de resistance made a large chest of drawers for my clothes. Admittedly at this point I was so tired and had had a few beers that said chest of drawers now has one drawers that seemingly will never open again. I have decided to make the most of this and call it my 'secret drawer' or 'emergency drawer' and have stuffed it full of things I never really need. None of them are particularly secret - unless you count the fact that I own a sports vest as something I probably should never tell people. Oh. Oh dear - or emergency. Its not the point. Add that to the Tron Legacy Soundtrack which will now play endlessly for a few days, and as far as I'm concerned, I live in an exciting world of danger.

Yes the kitchen still looks like something properly horrible has happened in there, and the living room needs sorting out but my room is all nice so I can sit in it and do stuff whilst looking out at people sliding down the icy hill we live on. Its the best prime time viewing I've ever had at a work station. So far two men, one lady and a child have all stumbled. Put that to the Tron Legacy soundtrack and its exciting. I nearly opened my 'emergency' drawer a few times incase any of them were injured and would need a really tatty red tshirt.

Tomorrow I drive to Leeds in the snow. That is proper danger. I may pack the whole emergency drawer in the boot just incase.

Ikea, Youkea, Wekea, Neverkeagain

Its hurting to type this today as I have what I affectionately refer to as 'Ikea hands'. Ikea hands are the result of any activity to do with said Swedish chain as it will no doubt involve at least some of the following: awkwardly carrying over heavy things; moving heavy things out of a constantly moving trolley and onto the till whilst a gormless blue shirted gimp stares at you; putting bits of furniture together and having to hit it with your hands as a hammer would break it but pushing it is not enough; trying to screw screws into metal drawer handles that don't have holes big enough for the screws you're given; repeatedly bashing your own head and face out of sheer frustration at how you can consistently return to and buy things from a place that makes you nothing less than extremely angry. I visited said flatpack hell today for the first time ever by myself. Usually Ikea visits have been with family, girlfriends or friends and have 100% of the time resulted in an argument of some sort. This will range anywhere from big issues like what item of large furniture should be purchased to reasoning that yes, you can have enough tea lights. All in all it always has very little to do whatever the argument seems to be about and more that after half an hour in a domestic labyrinth worthy of having its own build-it-yourself minotaur, any and everyone goes a little bit bonkers. Anywhere that has a distinct lack of windows and yet an endless stream of rooms that you walk through like the most invasive episode of 'Through The Keyhole' you've ever seen is not going to leave you sane. The arrowed path that takes you round and round until you've seen six trillion chairs and yet all you really need is to sit down. And the furniture being called 'bonky' and 'shitty' or 'wanka' so you feel like you've been personally introduced to a bunch of wooden dwarves. Its not designed for the unsteady of mind. That's all I'm saying.

Going alone, I'd thought I'd be safe. I thought that I'd escape the possibility of a shouting match about how much I want a veggie hotdog and not an art print of a flower that appears to have been drawn by a chimp who's sat on a pencil and waved its arse at a canvas. No. Instead I had three arguments inside my own head about whether or not I should get a Goliat or a Brunsta or something and the never ending small child in my brain shouting repeatedly 'this is boring! When are we going home?' I still got round it in an hour and despite barely being able to lift a chest of drawers I'd bought and nearly screaming as I tried to tip it over the edge of the trolley and into the boot of my car but instead kept rolling said trolley into other people's cars and banging my head on the boot, I felt like I'd survived. Then, just as I got in the car, I did something stupid and remembered my mum had insisted they have a bit where you can get spare parts and as my CD racks and wardrobe are missing some vital components I decided to investigate.

After racing round the entire building like a Scaletrix car controlled by someone on a lot of coffee, I discovered the 'Returns' section. This section, despite its name, does more than just returns. Instead it deals with spare parts, general complaints, and various other queries. What this means, is rather than me finding a small shelf with the few bits on it I needed and leaving, I had to wait for 45 minutes surrounded by angry people whose cupboards were missing bits or not working while I simply wanted 4 tiny metal things that outside of CD racks could possibly only be used to poke into squirrel's eyes. Grey squirrels. Not red. I like red ones. 45 fucking minutes. Then the man came back with the tiny metal things and stupid me mentioned the cupboard hinges I needed too and so another 15 minutes of my life disappeared as I watched him behind the plastic screen talk to his mates for a while, drink some tea, grab two hinges off the wall right by him and walk out. They didn't charge me for such things, but they didn't need to. They had already taken my soul, my dignity and a large portion of my life. Fuck you Ikea. I hope you burn down. And you'd burn really easily too with all that cheap wood. Actually don't burn down. I still have one more thing to build and I might need spare bits.

Tonight is my only night off this week and I'm fairly sure it will be spent shouting at inanimate objects and making sure I don't drill my own face off.